


Object of Affection

by CorsetJinx



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Banter, Gen, Hugs, Male-Female Friendship, Platonic Relationships, Self-Discovery, Snark, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 14:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13953207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: Alisaie resolves to improve her own talents, no matter what it takes. Even if it means pursuing a job class few have ever heard of. A love letter to underappreciated characters.





	Object of Affection

When the news reaches Alisaie of what has transpired in Ul'dah she is already too far away to rush to her brother’s aid. Despite their parting words, Alphinaud is the only family she has. In her heart of hearts, Alisaie does not know what she might do if he were taken from the world.

So she arranges for a message to be sent. For all her contacts across Eorzea to be of help to Alphinaud even if she cannot be there herself. It may not be much, in the long run, but it is what she has at her disposal.

* * *

Her attempt at trailing the Warriors of Darkness nearly gets her killed. But she is reunited with her brother, thanks to Thancred. The wound hurts where the miqo'te’s arrow pierced deep and the poison sends fire running through her veins. But she is determined. To live, to push past this terrible pain and become stronger. Alphinaud needs her, even if the boastful oaf won’t say it.

And she needs him. As much as she needs their mutual friends among the Scions and the adventurers so recklessly named the Warriors of Light. They are her family now and Alisaie cannot abide the thought of losing them.

She also needs this for herself. To grow beyond the shadow of her grandfather. Of her brother.

So, while the healers of Ishgard bathe her body in scented water and coax poison out with hallowed light, Alisaie makes herself a promise. She will _not_ fall here. She will rise and be stronger for it.

* * *

X'rhun is not what she expected. Granted, when she had heard the curious rumor of a mage who fought with a sword _and_ balanced both white and black magics she had been skeptical. But to actually see him, clad in proud crimson and watching her with curiously amused eyes, Alisaie feels herself at a loss.

“What do you mean I am _imbalanced_?” Alisaie repeats hotly, arms folded over her chest.

X'rhun’s tail sways idly behind him. She can only catch glimpses of it around the tails of his coat, but it is fluffier than what she expected. Unlike her the miqo'te keeps his stance loose and at ease, even going so far as to _smile_ at her.

“Your focus is bent more towards the arts of a black mage.” He tells her simply. Were it anyone else, the words would sound patronizing. “I cannot help you so long as you train yourself only to destroy.”

“You say that as though you cannot _teach_ me.” Grimacing, Alisaie lifts her chin in a challenge.

X'rhun chuckles, blast him, but it is warm and gentle sound. He is an older miqo'te, brow lined and burdened by stress. But he has kindness in him. Alisaie has seen it. Seen him throw himself between bandits and innocents, expecting nothing in return.

Doubtless she is the first to come in search of him, looking for tutelage.

“There are some lessons that must be learned alone.” X'rhun dips his head. “I can no more guide you along the path of the white than take your hand as mine own and use deadly steel. _You_ must learn the skills for yourself. Then we may begin, should you still desire it.”

“I shall hold you to that.” Alisaie warns, her eyes narrowing. “Where shall I find you, once it is done?”

Something flashes across his face. Too quick for her to discern. But his smile is knowing and he offers her a charmingly rougish bow. It is as overly elaborate as his overcoat, entirely unnecessary and just a little ridiculous. Yet X'rhun looks her in the eye with all seriousness and does not mock her for her young age as he replies.

“We shall find each other, I would wager. Until then, my daring lady.”

He is gone before Alisaie can reprimand him. Hells, even _Thancred_ is not so fast as to escape a good ribbing for giving her a nickname.

She huffs, cursing the damnable heat of Ul'dah and turns her feet towards the nearest conjurer’s shop. In order to begin practicing the healing arts she will need a stave. And books. And a teacher.

Alisaie groans, loud and unladylike, in frustration.

* * *

Alisaie despises the overbearing nature of conjurers and their ascendants, the proper white mages. They are too likely to hush, click their tongues, and shuffle their feet about things. At _least_ among the thaumatarges and proper black mages she would be able to progress.

She stops, a headache pounding at her temples, fingers just shy of ripping a page out of her new book out of spite.

_That’s the problem, isn’t it?_ She has been looking at this through the eyes of an arcanist - of a possible black mage. White magic is not school of sorcery that one will easily succeed in by charging ahead and neglecting the minute details.

All at once she feels very tired and young and foolish. Alphinaud would sigh and shake his head at her if he were here. Probably go on one of his speeches or lectures.

_Of **course** you cannot expect immediate results, Alisaie._ The voice she likes to imagine is her brother’s chides. _Every facet of magic is different._

“Seven hells.” She groans into the empty room, burying her face in her arm.

Alisaie is glad X'rhun is not here. Watching, perhaps, because in the last few months she has sometimes glimpse brilliant crimson out of the corner of her eye or a fluffy white tail turning a corner at a most convenient moment. But if he is keeping tabs on her, X'rhun is respectful enough to give her space.

Pushing herself up with a thorough metal scolding, Alisaie takes deep breaths and let’s them out slowly.

_Balance._ Such is the nature of magic, regardless of whether it is black or white or any other configuration. Without It, the caster only invites destruction upon themselves.

To be a red mage one must look within themselves and learn to play the nuance of healing and destruction off of one another. To hold them in accord until the potential of _both_ might be unleashed. The sword is but a measure of defense. A medium where necessary. The true power comes from within the mage.

Alisaie lets out her stalled breath and drops her shoulders from their frustrated hunch. Brightening the lamp beside her she begins to read again.

* * *

“I feel as though you are laughing at me.” Alisaie grumbles, pulling herself up to her feet. The training dummy is a smoky ruin. She has lost her blade somewhere, but the crystal medium bobs faithfully at her side.

X'rhun shakes his head, tail swaying. “I would never dream of it. If the path were easy then it would not be the same.”

He checks her hands for burns, the leather of his gloves smooth from wear and warm from his skin. X'rhun presses gentle fingers against her palm and murmurs words of healing that take the blisters and redness from her flesh.

“I am imbalanced still.” Alisaie says without prompting, glaring at the dirt beneath their feet. X'rhun’s shadow shields her from the hot sun. He is so tall.

Much taller than she thought a miqo'te could be.

“You cannot force yourself to change.” X'rhun tells her softly, releasing her hands. “It will only hurt in the long run. But you are growing, if you would only acknowledge that fact and not compare yourself to someone else.”

Alisaie flinches. Her whole life has been merely a pale shadow against her brother’s successes. Her grandfather’s legacy.

Eorzea applauds the men who stand tall or show skill, but for women there is so little.

How can she not compare herself to others, when it has always been done?

“Come.” X'rhun smiles at her, nudging her chin up with his knuckles. “I believe it is time for tea. You have done well. A break shall lift your spirits.”

“You needn’t try to spoil me.” Alisaie mutters, staring into his pale blue eyes. The slits of his pupils are thin. Beautiful and strange to her.

“I am not.” X'rhun tilts his head to the side. “No warrior or mage can make any progress on an empty stomach. And we have cause for celebration - it is your nameday.”

He smiles so brightly, so gently, that it almost makes up for the shock his words give her.

Alisaie had forgotten about her nameday. The first she’s ever spent without being at her brother’s side.

She wonders how X'rhun learned of it.

“You are buying, I take it?” She inquires, a hand coming to rest on her hip.

He sketches another one of those elaborate bows, tail curling. “T'would be mine honor, dearest swordmaiden.”

She could shove him. A part of her wants to. But he is taller and more solidly built. Alisaie doubts she could budge him, if X'rhun had a mind to plant himself. 

“Onwards then. Training does work up one’s appetite.”

X'rhun pins the gemstone bearing the symbol of the Red Mages to her lapel with a proud smile. Alisaie stares at the stone, disbelieving yet so happy she could burst.

There are no speeches of congratulations. No long winded words of advice.

Alisaie throws her arms around X'rhun’s middle and holds him tightly as wet heat threatens to slip past the barrier of her eyelids.

“I am too old for you, you know.” X'rhun teases. “Nearly thirty summers too old.” But his arms come around her and he holds her steady.

He is solid. Warm. These past months have been tumultuous. She has gained a new appreciation for his optimism and patient insight.

“I am aware.” Alisaie huffs into his chest, smiling. “But keep the thought of my affections with you, if it helps you feel young.”

He laughs, the sound rich and deep in her ear.

“Thank you.” Alisaie breathes, squeezing him before letting him go.

“It was mine honor.” X'rhun smooths her hair back into place fondly.

**Author's Note:**

> I've a new weakness and that weakness is X'rhun Tia. And Alisaie being happy.


End file.
